My Landlady’s Secret – An Interlude

Sitting in my idling car, waiting for the ambulance to go to the hospital. See if I don’t write about this.
 
It’s probably another panic attack. It’s the third one Linda’s had in my presence. I don’t remember her talking about "tingling" before. The cost is ghastly, but I didn’t have all the answers, and I needed to be sure.
 
It happened once when we took her cat to the vet. Linda was winding down, breathing uncontrollably. I spent an hour holding her hand, chasing her with a styrofoam cup filled with cool water.
 
"We’re going to St. Joe’s I guess."
 
She was at St. Joe’s the last time. And for whatever reason, they let me ride in the ambulance that time. She tested fine–fit as a fiddle. Maybe it was nerves, maybe it was dehydration.
 
The Adam Sandler Doppelgänger with the red suspenders is a little bit of a prick.
 

 
"I think it’s behavioral," he said. "She couldn’t get up on her own, but when I asked her if she needed anything, she grabbed her hat and put it on her head. Is there anything you can tell me about her symptoms, something out of the ordinary from those other times?"
 
"She never said anything about tingling before."
 
There was a clearly implied roll of the eyes.
 
"Oh, that’s standard for shortness of breath."
 
I figured. But again, I’m a CNA. I don’t no shit, as ASD would be happy to attest.
 
They didn’t signal before making the last exit. They weren’t trying to lose me, were they?
 
We’re right across the street from NBC. And it’s a hospital, so street parking is a Bigfoot sighting rarity. But I saw one. I saw it as clear as Jay Leno’s chin. A hole in the eternal cavalcade just long enough to fit my weathered frame. But that light, that fuckin’ light–what did the world have against the modest alley from which I was attempting my left? Watching the timer tick down from seven… six… five… four… Guy across the street  eases ahead and prepares to parallel park just as the light changes, unknowingly breaks my heart.
 
The trick is keeping a cool head. Keep that cool head, and hold worse possibilities at bay. An emergency needn’t be a crisis. It can be just a new, temporary list of priorities.
 
Speaking of, Linda really did grab her hat. That wasn’t bullshit. She’s wearing it right now, the back of her head crushing the straw against the slightly elevated end of a gurney.
 
Her stomach hurts. That’s a switch from the last one. She rests, hat still on her head, a pair of Franco Sarto heels color coordinated perfectly with her outfit–a beige blouse and pantsuit affair. Resting comfortably.
 
She called me while I was watching "Once" with my mother over Skype. I reiterated what a "spacebar" was to get her to stop and start the movie on her own–admonishing that it wasn’t a place where Martians hung out to tie one on.
 
 

 
 
I let myself in. I found Linda on wobbly legs and did my best to lead her to her favorite chair in the living room. She was hyperventilating. She could barely raise the glass of water I gave her.
 
I took her hand and encouraged her to slow her breath. I’ve been doing breathing exercises for so long, that it’s counterintuitive to come across people that can’t, in the absence of exertion, control their breath. You’d figure it’d be just as easy as blinking or raising an arm. Though I did know a woman who couldn’t close one eye at a time. She could only wink in profile.
 
Watching Linda now confirms something that struck me as painfully obvious; time would have cured her. Is a hospital gurney really that much more comfortable than the living room carpet?
 
I couldn’t in good conscience leave those shoes on her, even though she was complaining about the cold.
 
"It’ll be better for the circulation," I told her, straightening out the sheet and extending it.
 
She allowed herself to slide off her favorite chair, attempting to find a reasonable position, her lungs working triple as if straining against poison gas. I turned off the radio and only talked when it was necessary, suddenly very conscious that I was just sitting there, in silence, not doing anything as she continued to unravel."
 
"Call… Doctor T______…"
 
She was on her way to her plastic surgeon. She had fallen a few weeks ago and gashed herself right between the eyebrows, ripped a divot about the size of a pencil eraser. Once the flow of  blood had stemmed , she wringed her hands on how she’d face the world with such a glaring defect. She’d been getting by on an abundance of concealer and a clever hair arrangement.
 
"Is your planner in alphabetical order?"
 
"Yes it is," she said.
 
It wasn’t. T-I was followed by T-E, T-A, indiscriminately, keeping me guessing. There were thousands of names and numbers stuffed into tiny scribblings, and not a rhyme or reason as to the order beyond the first letter. I noted Rip Taylor’s address, complete with amusing caricature. I found the good doctor’s number much faster than I ever thought possible…
 
I attempted to cancel the appointment. The assistant asked me to put Linda on the phone, and she gasped, stuttered and mumbled her way through the interview, telling the woman that I was a nurse.
 
"Nurse’s assistant, actually." I corrected when I got the phone back.
 
"You need to call 9-1-1," the woman insisted, Pushy Parker.
 
"Do you want to go to the hospital?" I asked Linda.
 
"She languished. "Oh, no, I really don’t."
 
"I can drive you to urgent care…" I said, not really remembering where there was a clinic handy.
 
"I don’t …. think I can make it…"
 
And then she mentioned the tingling thing. She lay flat on her carpet and I propped a pillow under her neck. I didn’t blame her. Costs being what they were I wouldn’t want to go to the hospital unless I knew, beyond any doubt, that I’d otherwise die or lose a limb…
 
"I’m gonna call them, Linda. We just gotta be sure."
 
"Okay…"
 
A plump, elderly black woman cries out plaintively for… someone, in a–I’ve been overusing the word "shrill" lately and don’t have access to a thesaurus–voice. Curiosity, but also… something good in me, I suppose…
 
"You okay?"
 
"Nooooo…" she whimpered, and started to mention some guy that left her, couldn’t really make it out.
 
"I’m Eric."
 
"I’m Matilda."
 
"Hi, can I… Do you mind if I…" I put my hand on her shoulder, and she didn’t balk. I couldn’t make it out, but she said the words "depression" and "crystal meth" clear as a bell.
 
"I need an ambulance."
 
I was transferred.
 
I told the guy the situation, gave him the address for Linda’s place, even though I called from a landline and I knew it came up automatically when I made the call. In preparation for their arrival, I moved the furniture around to ensure easy access.
 
The 911 operator stayed on the line until he was sure that the paramedics had arrived. I could hear the sirens in under seven minutes.
 
Two ambulances and a fire truck. You know. Just in case she spontaneously detonated.
 
I scrambled around her home,  grabbing her purse, her keys. I put all her medication into a plastic bag. I grabbed my backpack. I couldn’t figure out which keys went with which deadbolt, so I locked the outer screen doors.
 
I could hear Sandler getting frustrated with Linda through the open doors of the ambulance. He waved me away and told me to follow them to the hospital.

 

 

The incident was once again classified as a panic attack and the possible result of dehydration. After an interminable wait, they gave her a script for Ativan.
 
I stayed with her as a friend, and performed a few caregiver functions: translating the events to nurses and doctors into rational order, escorting her to the loo, making sure she was swaddled in an extra blanket (they gave her a toasty one fresh out of the dryer), making sure she had enough to drink.
 
In return, she gave me a free month’s rent. It was far too generous of her to offer (about an 1250% markup from my usual rate), but I couldn’t bring myself to turn it down. I chalked it off as a retainer to whatever help she’d need for the rest of the month. 
 
We got home, and she assured me that she was okay enough to drive down the block to pick up her medication. She was and she did, but when she got back she called me up in a shaky voice.
 
"I think somebody broke in."
 
The inner doors were unlocked. Somebody moved the furniture around.
 
We met in our shared backyard. She was obviously devolving back to her previous state. The heaving, the face stricken with fear. 
 
I held her shoulders, and looked directly into her eyes so she can witness my sincerity. With slow, calm certainty, I let her know that I was the culprit. I moved her favorite chair and locked the screen doors for her benefit alone. She was home, she was safe, she had mood altering drugs, and she had me to look out for her.
 
"Isn’t it amazing?" she asked "That the human mind can do that to the body?"
 
She couldn’t figure out what it is that made her so afraid, and after knowing her for nine years, I could never be sure. But there’s still time, and we’re both well-meaning people. Surely we can help each other to feel safer.
 
Mom and I finished the movie. It weren’t bad.